


april rain song

by azirapha1e



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, i wrote this at 3am on a whim, probably, so just be aware that if at some point i've written 'shit' instead of 'shut' it was an accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:46:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azirapha1e/pseuds/azirapha1e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has a strategy, see, he's thought all this through. The front of his sketchbook is where his actual art can be found - where he draws studies and folks in the street, and figures out things like perspective and proportion. Respectable things, nothing that would cause a stir if Steve accidentally left the sketchbook lying around and someone happened to look inside. They'd see him for what he is: an artist, learning his trade.</p><p>The back pages, though. </p><p>(Alternatively titled: Why Not To Draw Your Best Friend Shirtless, and Other Useful Life Lessons)</p>
            </blockquote>





	april rain song

It's raining, the soft-but-all-day kind of rain you get when winter's on the cusp of spring. Steve's sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, sketching the curve of a stranger's shoulder onto the open page of his sketchbook.

The natural light isn't too good today, all faded and distant under a sky that's too overcast for the sun to really shine through, so Steve has settled down by the lamp on the windowsill. The honey glow of it is familiar to draw by, the soft rhythm of his pencil on the paper lulling him into a doze, an empty coffee mug sitting forgotten to his left.

There's a cat prowling in the corner of the page, fur soaked, upper lip raised in a snarl. On the opposite side a car pushes through standing water, ripples moving out from the tires. He draws the rain, and the way it slips down the window, he draws the sea of figures that hurry on the sidewalk below him, and a half sketched torso leans back against the edge of the paper.

Tongue between his teeth, Steve pulls the line of the mystery figure's shoulders up, outlines a neck and head, and by the time he's started shading in the cheekbones, he's figured out who it is his hands want to draw.

Steve has a strategy, see, he's thought all this through. The front of his sketchbook is where his actual art can be found - where he draws studies and folks in the street, and figures out things like perspective and proportion. Respectable things, nothing that would cause a stir if Steve accidentally left the sketchbook lying around and someone happened to look inside. They'd see him for what he is: an artist, learning his trade.

The back pages, though. 

Everything there is broad shoulders and dark brown hair and a grin that makes his hands shake, because Bucky's a Brooklyn boy, born and bred - smart sweet talking mouth and warm blue eyes bright with the particular brand of kindred mischief that has kept Steve in orbit since he was ten years old, ducking away from kicks and clumsy fists down some no-name back alley, only to look up and see a hand reached out towards him, white handkerchief offered on an upturned palm. Bucky was made for Brooklyn, and that's the difference that defines it all, because Steve is everything that Bucky is not.

He feels like a jumble of ill fitting pieces, stuck together in this 5'2 body that's 90 pounds when wet, bold collarbones and bony ankles, all jutting edges, skinny and sharp - a lifetime of coughing fits and dodged punches, a fever that comes every winter like clockwork and a hot fire of Something burning away inside him. He doesn't belong here, he thinks, with Bucky and all the other bright young things of Brooklyn, with their soft curved smiles and clean skin and dancing halls, when Steve is a mess of prominent rib bones and bloodied knuckles, he doesn't belong, he doesn't fit, and yet -

And yet.

Bucky stays. He could be pals with any guy he wanted, but he stays here, with Steve, and there's something almost selfish about how that makes Steve feel, but he tries not to dwell on it too much. Thinking about it feels like touching the edge of something bigger, something that explains why it is that Bucky makes him so...

Well, like he said. He tries not to dwell on it.

Steve tucks that thought away before it goes any further, distracting himself by starting on Bucky's features. He curls the pencil just so to try and catch the particular cocksure smirk of Bucky's mouth, a warm flush of pride sparking in his chest when he succeeds. (That's the secret, he's found - the mouth and the eyes. So long as he gets those right, everything else comes easy as breathing.)

Steve moves down the outline methodically, pencil adding in the details that change this body from a stranger's to one he knows almost as well as his own: the scar on Bucky's left shoulder from an incident with a pocket knife when they were fourteen, the precise and delicate curve of his lashes against his cheek, the certain way he holds his arms when he crosses them. Steve gets lost in the lines of Bucky's collarbones, his chest and pectoral muscles filling out naturally beneath them.

It's soothing. The rain falls against the window, and his pencil moves steadily over the paper, and Steve reckons he could stay like this for hours if he had to. He already as. His throat is dry, though, so he stands up reluctantly, stretching out his arms as he sets the water boiling and takes the bag of coffee granules out of the cupboard over the chipped enamel sink. He takes a moment to inhale the steam from his mug when he sits down - the coffee they buy isn't exactly the finest, but the smell's always the same - warm and full, rich in a way the taste never is, somehow.

He sets the mug down gently, returning to filling out Bucky's lower forearms. They're deceptively hard to get right, because Steve knows there's a specific shape to them, but he can't quite put his finger on what it is - and there are those thoughts again, seeping in through the cracks, because he wants to know every line of Bucky's body, acquaint himself with every minutiae of how it moves and shifts, but he can't, because Bucky is Bucky and Steve is Steve, but sometimes, Steve starts to wonder if things could have been different, if they could be -

"Hey, Stevie, you in?"

The front door slams. Steve sighs; pushes his sketchbook to one side and runs a hand through his hair.

"In the kitchen," he calls back, 'And quit calling me Stevie."

Bucky shows up in the doorway a minute or so later, shedding a light layer of water from his clothes, and Steve smiles at the sight of him as Bucky shakes himself like a damp cat.

"How were the docks?" Steve asks, walking over to hang his sodden coat to dry over the back of a chair.

"Same old, same old," Bucky replies, leaning back against the kitchen table before picking up Steve's coffee and taking a sip, and all Steve can think is how his lips are touching where Steve's were, not five minutes ago. Bucky's hands wrap around the mug for warmth, and the light from the table lamp catches in his hair, the tips burnished to gold. Steve's hands itch with the need to sketch him again, but Bucky has other ideas.

"You been drawin'?" he asks, picking up Steve's sketchbook from where it sits on the tabletop and making to flip through it. Steve feels his heart jump - this is why he tries to keep the back and front separate, because usually Bucky taking a look at a few pages of his work is no deal at all, but this time -

If Bucky sees -

"Give that here," Steve says, a little too fast, reaching for the sketchbook, but Bucky grins, pulls it just out of reach. 

"Aw, come on, I can't even look? Just a little?"

"It's private," Steve answers back, and damn it all, he can feel himself blushing, hot pinpricks creeping up his neck.

"Private, huh? So that's how it is," Bucky drawls, eyebrows raised, making sure to draw out every hint of innuendo he can, and Steve feels himself grinning even as Bucky darts away from his outstretched hand. He makes another grab for his sketchbook, but Bucky's too quick and knows his moves too well, and pretty soon they're left at a cowboy stand off on either side of the kitchen table.

"Finders, keepers," Bucky sing-songs, smirking as he dangling the book out in front of him.

"Give it back, Buck, come on," Steve says, pink cheeked and laughing, but as he steps forward he feels something shift in his lungs, something tighten. He pauses, coughs into his elbow, once, twice, a third time, before realising, as he begins to wheeze, that he isn't able to stop.

He hears Bucky swear, and then he's kneeling beside Steve within a second, rubbing warm circles on his back as Steve tries to breathe past the tightness in his throat. He's vaguely aware that he's on his knees, but he doesn't really remember how he got there, head heavy, raw throat on fire as he fights to inhale.

"Come on now, nice and slow, just the way you always do," Bucky murmurs, and Steve focuses on his voice, how it sounds and the way it reverberates through his back as Bucky pulls Steve to sit upright between his legs and against his chest. It's a long one this time, a full five minutes passing before the final vestiges of dizziness completely dissipate, and afterwards they stay sat on the floor for a while, just leaning on each other as Steve catches his breath.

"Jesus, Steve," Bucky says, eventually, "You think you're coming down with something?"

Steve shakes his head.

"M'fine," he answers hoarsely, "Honest, it's just the usual, you don't need to-"

"To what," Bucky retorts, voice oddly tight, "To worry? My best friend's laid out on the floor, coughing himself sick, and I don't need to worry?"

Steve feels something strange spark in him at that, at the way Bucky pulls him closer while he's speaking. He ignores it, though, sits up instead, not leaning back on Bucky anymore, but not moving away either. Steve turns his head slightly to meet Bucky's eyes.

"I can take care of myself just fine," he says, firm and stubborn. Bucky frowns at him.

"Yeah, I know that, but-"

"No, Buck, I mean..." Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair, ducking his head down to the floor.

"I mean I don't want you to keep pitying me," he finishes, quietly.

"Good," Bucky replies, not missing a beat, "Because I don't."

He seems to know that Steve's half-hearted nod isn't exactly sincere, because Steve feels him poke at his shoulder as he says, softly, "Hey, c'mon. Look at me." 

Steve does, turning his head to face Bucky again almost on instinct, and Bucky fixes him with serious eyes.

"There's nothing about you that needs pitying, Steve. Not one thing."

His voice is knowing, certain - fierce, almost, like he's daring Steve to say otherwise. Steve swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and says nothing.

The silence between them is electric, charged with possibility. Steve wants to speak, has a thousand questions running through his mind, but doesn't know how to ask them - these are uncharted waters, things they've danced around from afar, never quite stepping close enough to address them directly. They're close, too close, and Steve finds his gaze falling to Bucky's mouth. He thinks how easy it would be to just lean forward and close what little distance remains between them. He wonders, absurdly, whether Bucky's lips are as soft as they look.

Steve shoves the thoughts away before he can hesitate, clears his throat and gets to his feet - Bucky follows a split second later, and just like that, the moment slips away from them, the air losing some of its earlier heaviness. Steve looks out the window at the grey city street outside, and reminds himself how to breathe.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, finally, and Steve hates that there's guilt in his voice, "About earlier, I shouldn't have got you all worked up like that."

"Buck, I told you, it's fine. You don't need to apologise."

"I should have been more careful," Bucky argues, stubbornly, and Steve sighs. This, at least, is something he's familiar with.

"I'm not gonna to break from a little roughhousing."

"Look, I'm just saying, you get yourself beat up enough as it is without me going in and makin' things worse."

"Making what worse, exactly?"

"Oh, c'mon, you know what I'm tryin' to say here-"

"Which is what?" Steve cuts him off sharply, "What are you trying to say, Buck? Because I gotta be honest, it's starting to sound a lot like pity from where I'm standing."

"I don't pity you," Bucky answers, voice loud with frustration, "Christ, Steve, I've never pitied you, I'm just-"

Bucky inhales sharply, and Steve frowns as he turns around to face him.

"What's wrong-" he says, concerned, and then he sees what Bucky's holding, and the words dry up in his mouth.

Bucky isn't looking at him. His eyes are fixed on the open sketchbook in his hands. He holds it very gently, as if he's afraid to touch. Steve can see what Bucky's looking at from where he's standing - recognises the half shaded drawings of Bucky's profile, of his chest, of his eyes. Of his mouth.

Steve clenches one hand into a fist. The pinpricks of his fingernails dig into his palm.

He knows what he has to do, because this moment was inevitable, really, ever since Steve was fifteen years old and had started noticing the way Bucky's eyes crinkled when he laughed, the broad curve of his shoulders and the narrow lines of his hips, the difference between the smile he used on girls when he asked to take them out for the night and the one he gave to Steve when he first wandered into the kitchen before work in the morning, hair sticking up every which way and still half asleep.

Steve knows what he has to say. He just wishes he could pretend a little longer.

"I can be gone by Monday," he offers, quietly, but Bucky doesn't answer. He's staring at Steve like he's a stranger, eyes wide, and it hurts to look at him, so Steve doesn't, turning his eyes quickly to the floor as he stumbles over his words, awkward with Bucky in a way he's never been.

"Or, I mean, I can get my stuff and find somewhere now, if you just want me out quick, I think Mrs Houston from a few blocks over has a room going, so if you-" 

"Steve."

Bucky's voice is quiet, and it breaks a little at the end, but it gets Steve's attention the same way it always does. He looks up at Bucky, and Bucky looks back at him, an expression on his face that Steve can't parse.

"You really think I'd kick you out?" Bucky asks softly. The question makes his insides twist, and Steve shrugs, awkward and confused.

"...Aren't you going to?"

Bucky huffs out something between a laugh and a sob, and runs a hand through his hair.

"Jesus christ, Rogers," he says, shaking his head, before crossing the distance between them and pulling Steve in close. It's the right kind of breathlessness, pressed against the living warmth of Bucky's chest, his head fitting into the space under Bucky's chin.

"I swear to god," Bucky mutters into his hair, "I swear to god, you're the stupidest guy I ever - no, I'm not throwing you out."

Something odd is happening in Steve's chest, something light and heavy and fragile all at once, because he doesn't understand how Bucky can say that so easily, and with such certainty, as if it's no trouble at all.

"Buck," Steve says, cautiously, "Buck, you know what that picture... you know what it means, right? About me."

Bucky tenses, the movement slight enough that Steve would never have known it were there if they hadn't been so close. He steps back a little, rubbing at his neck with one hand.

"Yeah, well," Bucky begins, "I guess I..."

His voice trails off. He runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes briefly.

"Aw, hell," he says, and then his mouth is on Steve's, gentle, tentative, and warm. 

Bucky's lips are slightly chapped from the wind, and the angle's not quite right. The kiss is closed-mouthed, at first, almost chaste, and for a moment, Steve is still, but then he tilts his head and lets his lips part and from there it becomes easy, Bucky's hands moving to cradle Steve's jaw, his thumbs brushing over Steve's cheekbones. It's perfect, but it's not, and Steve never wants it to end. It does though, eventually, the way all things do, Bucky pulling away, his hands sliding down Steve's arms to loosely encircle his wrists.

"You taste like sugar," Steve blurts out. They're still standing too close, and he doesn't know why he's talking but he can't seem to control his mouth.

"Fruit gums," Bucky replies, dazedly, and he sounds kind of breathless, "I brought some fruit gums back, thought we could share them, christ, Stevie, why'd you never tell me?"

That hits something raw with Steve. He takes a step back, hearing his throat click as he swallows.

"You like girls, Buck," he says, softly. "You don't like me."

There's more to his answer, but the words won't come - his mouth's too dry and every time he tries they stick to the back of his throat, so instead he looks up at Bucky, and Bucky looks back at him, and he seems to see something in Steve that has his expression shifting away from confusion and into understanding.

Bucky moves forward again, pulling Steve in close with two hands that settle on either side of Steve's neck. 

"Come on now, Rogers," Bucky murmurs against his mouth, "Thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

Steve wants to frown, because there's a whole other conversation to be had about those words, but Bucky's kisses are sweet and light and incredibly, incredibly distracting.

"I'd take you over them," Bucky tells him when they break apart, confessional, quiet and quick, like the words are glass and he doesn't want his mouth to break them. "Wouldn't matter if they were Cathy Turner from next door or Rita goddamn Hayworth, I'd take you over any of them," and Steve feels something in his chest surge and swell with warmth, so he kisses Bucky again, and again, because it's all he can do. The rain falls soft against the window, and Steve is perfectly content to be lost in this sea.

"You don't even like Rita Hayworth," Steve mutters into Bucky's shoulder a few minutes later. His lips are tingling slightly, and he presses his mouth to Bucky's neck, just because he can, tasting rainwater and salt. Bucky huffs out a laugh.

"Well then," he says, slinging an arm over Steve's shoulders, "Guess you're stuck with me." 

Steve snorts, and kicks at Bucky's ankles a little.

"You say that to all the girls, Barnes?"

Bucky's mouth quirks up at the corners.

"Nah," he says, "Just you."

**Author's Note:**

> Let the rain kiss you  
> Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops  
> Let the rain sing you a lullaby  
> The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk  
> The rain makes running pools in the gutter  
> The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night  
> And I love the rain.
> 
> "April Rain Song" - Langston Hughes  
> 


End file.
